Sic Ill Quotes

They all shared a certain coolness, a cruel, mannered charm which was not modern in the least but had the strange cold breath of the ancient world : they were magnificent creatures, such eyes, such hands, such looks - sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat.

The common and continual mischief's [sic] of the spirit of party are sufficient to make it the interest and the duty of a wise people to discourage and restrain it. It serves always to distract the public councils and enfeeble the public administration. It agitates the community with ill founded jealousies and false alarms, kindles the animosity of one part against another, foments occasionally riot and insurrection. It opens the door to foreign influence and corruption, which find a facilitated access to the government itself through the channels of party passion.

they were magnificent creatures, such eyes, such hands, such looks-sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat.

Ye’re a scholar — that’s easy to see, for a’ ye’re sae plain spoken. It dis a body’s hert guid to hear a man ‘at un’erstan’s things say them plain oot i’ the tongue his mither taucht him. Sic a ane ‘ill gang straucht till’s makker, an’ fin’ a’thing there hame-like. Lord, I wuss minnisters wad speyk like ither fowk!

Ye dinna ken whar frae? - I'll tell you whar frae - frae hell; sic thoughts are the cormorants that sit on the apple trees in the devil's kail-yard, and the souls o the damned are the carcasses they mak their meat o.

McKusick's belief in this paradigm-the focus on disability rather than abnormalcy-was actualized in the treatment of patients in his clinic. Patients with dwarfism, for instance, were treated by an interdisciplinary team of genetic counselors, neurologists, orthopedic surgeons, nurses, and psychiatrists trained to focus on specific disabilities of persons with short stature. Surgical interventions were reserved to correct specific deformities as they arose. The goal was not to restore "normalcy"-but vitality, joy, and function. McKusic had rediscovered the founding principles of modern genetics in the realm of human pathology. In humans as in wild flies, genetic variations abounded. Here too genetic variants, environments, and gene-environment interactions ultimately collaborated to cause phenotypes-except in this case, the "phenotype" in question was disease. Here too some genes had partial penetrance and widely variable expressivity. One gene could cause many diseases, and one disease could be caused by many genes. And here too "fitness" could not be judged in absolutes. Rather the lack of fitness-illness [italicized, sic] in colloquial terms- was defined by the relative mismatch between an organism and environment.

Interestingly, the patients who presented to me self-diagnosed [with Dissociative Identity Disorder] had tried to tell previous therapists of their plight, but had been disbelieved. These therapists had used fallacious "capricious criteria" (KIuft, 1988) to discredit the diagnosis; e.g., that the patient could not possibly have MPD because she was aware of the other alters [sic!].

WHEN I DESCRIBED THE TUMOR IN MY ESOPHAGUS as a “blind, emotionless alien,” I suppose that even I couldn’t help awarding it some of the qualities of a living thing. This at least I know to be a mistake: an instance of the pathetic fallacy (angry cloud, proud mountain, presumptuous little Beaujolais) by which we ascribe animate qualities to inanimate phenomena. To exist, a cancer needs a living organism, but it cannot ever become a living organism. Its whole malice—there I go again—lies in the fact that the “best” it can do is to die with its host. Either that or its host will find the measures with which to extirpate and outlive it. But, as I knew before I became ill, there are some people for whom this explanation is unsatisfying. To them, a rodent carcinoma really is a dedicated, conscious agent—a slow–acting suicide–murderer—on a consecrated mission from heaven. You haven’t lived, if I can put it like this, until you have read contributions such as this on the websites of the faithful: Who else feels Christopher Hitchens getting terminal throat cancer [sic] was God’s revenge for him using his voice to blaspheme him? Atheists like to ignore FACTS. They like to act like everything is a “coincidence.” Really? It’s just a “coincidence” [that] out of any part of his body, Christopher Hitchens got cancer in the one part of his body he used for blasphemy? Yeah, keep believing that, Atheists. He’s going to writhe in agony and pain and wither away to nothing and then die a horrible agonizing death, and THEN comes the real fun, when he’s sent to HELLFIRE forever to be tortured and set afire. There are numerous passages in holy scripture and religious tradition that for centuries made this kind of gloating into a mainstream belief. Long before it concerned me particularly I had understood the obvious objections. First, which mere primate is so damn sure that he can know the mind of god? Second, would this anonymous author want his views to be read by my unoffending children, who are also being given a hard time in their way, and by the same god? Third, why not a thunderbolt for yours truly, or something similarly awe–inspiring? The vengeful deity has a sadly depleted arsenal if all he can think of is exactly the cancer that my age and former “lifestyle” would suggest that I got. Fourth, why cancer at all? Almost all men get cancer of the prostate if they live long enough: It’s an undignified thing but quite evenly distributed among saints and sinners, believers and unbelievers. If you maintain that god awards the appropriate cancers, you must also account for the numbers of infants who contract leukemia. Devout persons have died young and in pain. Betrand Russell and Voltaire, by contrast, remained spry until the end, as many psychopathic criminals and tyrants have also done. These visitations, then, seem awfully random. My so far uncancerous throat, let me rush to assure my Christian correspondent above, is not at all the only organ with which I have blasphemed. And even if my voice goes before I do, I shall continue to write polemics against religious delusions, at least until it’s hello darkness my old friend. In which case, why not cancer of the brain? As a terrified, half–aware imbecile, I might even scream for a priest at the close of business, though I hereby state while I am still lucid that the entity thus humiliating itself would not in fact be “me.” (Bear this in mind, in case of any later rumors or fabrications.)

this is a different quote i swear "They shared a certain coolness, a cruel, mannered charm which was not modern in the least but has a strange cold breath of the ancient world: they were magnificent creatures, such eyes, such hands, such looks — sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat." plsplspls

Don’t hurt her,” Pen warned, her little face fierce. “If you do, I’ll sic Mary on you.” “I would never hurt her,” I said, and I meant it. The thought alone made my heart clench. After a short pause, I added, “Who’s Mary?” “Show him, Rhea.” A Victorian doll stared up at me from the screen with unblinking blue eyes. She had black hair, a frilly white dress, and a smile made of pure evil. It was the creepiest fucking toy I’d ever seen. “No need to call in Mary. I’m not a doll person, and like I said…” My tone gentled, turning serious. “I would never hurt Sloane. She means…” The world. “Too much to me.

I’ll tell you why I’m dubious. These will be young people in this garden commune, I assume. That means they’ll be stoned half the time–one of the things you can grow in gardens is Cannabis. That won’t go down well with the neighbors. Neither will free-form marriage or the natural-credit Communist economy. They’ll be visited by the cops every week. They’ll be lucky if the American Legion doesn’t burn them out, or sic the dog catcher on their wild life children.” “None of that has anything to do with them. It only has to do with people outside.” “Sure,” I said, “but those people aren’t going to go away. If they won’t leave the colony alone I’ll give it six months. If it isn’t molested it might last a year or two. By that time half the people will have drifted away in search of bigger kicks, and the rest will be quarreling about some communal woman, or who got the worst corner of the garden patch, or who ate up all the sweet corn. Satisfying natural desires is fine, but natural desires have a way of being both competitive and consequential. And women may be equal to men, but they aren’t equal in attractiveness any more than men are. Affections have a way of fixing on individuals, which breeds jealousy, which breeds possessiveness, which breeds bad feeling. Q.E.D.

After a journey marred by droughts and snowstorms, illness and death, the remains of the Brewster party pursuing the land of plenty on the Colorado River stepped off the ferry and took it in. One look at the landscape told them that the boy prophet James Colin Brewster’s visionary powers were as bankrupt as his revelations were changeable. Here was Brewster’s land “of hills, of vallies [sic], of plains and pleasant places, which brings forth in abundance, that they who go there shall prosper.”16 It was a wasteland.

At the second hospital he was intubated to save him from suffocation. That is, a flexible tube was inserted deep into his mouth, past his glottis, and down his windpipe into his lungs, to help with breathing. This event represents another important clue toward explaining how SARS spread so effectively through hospitals around the world. Intubation is a simple procedure, at least in theory, but it can be difficult to execute amid the gag reflexes, sputters, and expectorations of the patient. The task was especially hard with Zhou, a portly man, sedated and feverish, and though his disease hadn’t yet been identified, the attending doctors and nurses seem to have had some sense of the danger to which they were being exposed. They knew by then that this atypical pneumonia, this whatever, was more transmissible and more lethal than pneumonias of the common sort. “Each time they began to insert the tube,” according to an account by Thomas Abraham, a veteran foreign correspondent based in Hong Kong, there was “an eruption” of bloody mucus. Abraham continues: It splashed on to the floor, the equipment and the faces and gowns of the medical staff. They knew the mucous [sic] was highly infectious, and in the normal course of things, they would have cleaned themselves up as quickly as possible. But with a critically ill patient kicking and heaving around, a tube half-inserted into his windpipe and mucous and blood spurting out, there was no way any of them could leave. At that hospital, twenty-three doctors and nurses became infected from Zhou, plus eighteen other patients and their relatives. Nineteen members of his own family also got sick. Zhou himself would eventually become known among medical staff in Guangzhou as the Poison King. He survived the illness, though many people who caught it from him—directly, or indirectly down a long chain of contacts—did not.

But I’ll bet my left nut he takes pictures, and sics a lackey on whoever he deems… appetizing.